The flint that ignited the spark
by fullbloodmuggle
Summary: The Hunger Games from Peeta's perspective


Sleep has evaded me yet again. My mind all but wanders as I look up at the ceiling. I couldn't sleep, not with the reaping scolded into the back of my mind. No one has brought it up for days but it's obvious it has been on everyone's mind.

I toss to my right hoping I can get to sleep, to the place my mind can explore unimaginable plains and mesmerising tales. The only place I can feel safe while taking a chance, where I can ever really be with her. The girl with the earth-brown hair braided off to the side, and the metallic-grey eyes that seem to have been forged of silver moon rays. The staled loaf hardening on the bottom shelf, the forgotten pie by the window. It made it hard to get to the girl I saw the first day of school. The girl with a voice so elegant, birds chirp in unison to the melodies she hums through her pristine lips. Katniss Everdeen.

Unfortunately though, the only thing playing through my mind at the moment is my mother's voice squealing, ever so similar to the pigs in our farmyard. "What have I told you about buying these damned squirrels from her!" There goes mum again. It sounds like she's in one of her better moods this morning. The smell of death on the horizon must be cheering the witch up.

I can't do it, I am too anxious to fall back asleep so I remove myself from between the broken mattress and the hand me down burgundy sheets for the necessary preparations of the Bakery. Everyone is grateful on the night of the reaping, thankful that it wasn't one of their children who were sent off to be murdered for entertainment. They come to our bakery seeking the finer goods for their celebrations. Some people save up just for it, treating their sweet tooth to our delicacies on the night their family and close friends escaped an almost certain death. The fastest to go are usually the cakes. I project my stress into my icing them, like I have done since I found my talent for it. I've always had a hand in art but because of the economic despair of district 12, I've never had the money to afford any of the equipment needed to even start thinking about painting. So for me, icing is my only artistic outlet.

While I decorate them, my mind trails from the poverty stricken streets just outside the window. Once when I was about nine we had a boy break in during the night. He must have been desperate for food, because the penalty for such a crime is punishable by death. He made off with a pocketful of tarts and a cake that was large enough to feed a family of thirty, which he probably would have done if he wasn't caught... I never found out what happened to him, but mum always says he got his just deserts, which to a sociopath like her is hilarious.

I cautiously walk into the kitchen to do my morning chores before anything else. This means baking loaves of bread and cake bases, cleaning the kitchen top to bottom, and moving the things my parents don't waste their time even thinking about. It looks like my brothers have already done their share of the work this morning; fresh cake tiers lay waiting for preparation. But before I even consider laying a frill of icing on it I need to do the odd jobs left up to me by my siblings.

I make the final touches on my pale pink cake decorated with trinket sized roses and violets, icing on the last of the green vines around the edge of each tier. My chores were done with enough time for me to ice one of the few cakes that were left aside for me to ice; as much as my mum hates to admit it she can't ice anywhere near as well as me which doesn't stop her taking credit for my work. I take a step back to look at it from afar. It's not my best, but for less than three hours of work it definitely turned out well. I look despairingly at the clock which just ticks over to 11:27. The hands have taunted me all morning, whenever I look up at them they seem to stop moving. I'll have to get back to the others after the reaping. That is if I'm still here.

The door to the bakery creaks open and my mother struts around the kitchen, checking to see if I completed my chores properly. "You'd best hope the rest of your jobs have been done Peeta," she threatens indirectly, eying the cake with marvel and jealousy in her eyes. She walks about in a nonchalant manner, running her finger along surfaces and immediately analysing her finger tip for any remnants or dust that I may have missed. "Good work." She snarls after finding no justifiable reason to punish me. She comes up close to me and I try my best to avert my attentions back to the cake. "What are you so worried about?" She asks, noticing the drear that had caked itself across my face, a clear divulge of my expression. "It's nothing mother, just- just the reaping." Upon my confession she lets out a demeaning snicker that doesn't make me feel any better about the situation. "What's the chance you'll be chosen, out of all the brandishing scum of District 12?" I'm not sure, but by her expression I think this is her attempt of comforting me. "Don't be worried about us either, because we'll still have two more sons left if you do get drawn from that bowl." That took a sharp turn. The shock I feel must be evident on my face because mother finally stops heckling on. I'm not sure if what she was saying was supposed to comfort and reassure me, or make me feel worse than I already did. Mother plays on my nerves for one moment longer by slipping her fingers through the peppermint leaves embroidering the top tier of the cake. "It's a tad bitter." I don't know if she was talking about herself or the icing. Mother scutters out of the room like she has somewhere else to be, reminding me of the occasional cockroach I see at school or by the old mines. The authorities around here are more concerned with law than the actual wellbeing of the citizens. I ice over the small incision my mother created on the cake, ensuring it's not noticeable. Last time I didn't I got the blame for it. A small dab eases itself out of the icing bag and covers it perfectly. I have to move the cake to the display shelf before I prep myself for the reaping. The Cartwright's should be here any minute now. I make my way over to the sink to wash the fluorescent coloured icing off of my hands, like my mother had rinsed the colour from me years ago. The water starts running and the colours swirl and blend as they're sucked down the drain. The greens and reds flirting, complimenting each other, while the pale pink and purple harmoniously twist and overlap. My attention is averted by a few close knocks and steal my focus from the brightly coloured sink. I finish washing off my hands and dry them on my apron. The store window is large enough for me to see Delly, who is standing eagerly on the mat outside the door. I move myself to the front door and curl my fingers around the handle. Don't forget to smile.

"Peeta, I've missed you over the past few weeks!" I had almost forgotten what her voice sounds like, it's been so long since I've last seen her. She hasn't been to school for a few weeks because her mum has come down with something. She has been looking after Mrs. Cartwright all by herself so her brother and father can continue about their everyday lives. The only time her mother has gone out over the past month is when she went to see Ms. Everdeen for some herbal remedies. Family meant everything to them. I often wondered what it would be like to be Delly, to have two loving parents and a normal childhood. One without a mother breathing down your neck waiting for you to make a mistake.

Delly stood buzzing in her underrated cerulean blouse and banded mahogany brown skirt that reached mid-shin. I recognised it from last year, but this year she had a lovely brandeis blue bow resting gently over her slicked brown hair. Her cheeks flutter a pale red as she notices me looking at her clothes. I feel my cheeks as they flush a red complexion, inescapable of Delly's notice. I can tell she likes me, so I try my hardest not to give her false hope. There's nothing worse than being disregarded by the only person you want to be with.

"Yeah, it's lovely to see you." My voice distorted into a friendly, confident tone. "How are ya' little man?" I say to her little brother, scruffing his hair in a bid to calm him for his first reaping. He gave me a look that answered my question. Distress, fear, vulnerability, faltering hope, just about everything I felt on my first reaping.

"Oh, hello! It's so nice to see you up and walking again," my dad starts conversation with Delly's parents as he walks in from behind the bakery. My father was in class with Mr. Cartwright, but Mrs. Cartwright never went. I never asked why. Misfortune wasn't unusual in District Even in the bakery where we specialised in baked goods, we often starved. I could only imagine the famine on the streets, barely being able to comprehend the hunger pains I felt most nights.

Mother enters the room short after father, dressed in her finest garments. This is after all a special occasion for her, she may have one less mouth to feed after tonight. She stops before me with a revolted expression. "You look like the squirrel your father just skinned." Mother eyes me up and down. "Go change into something that doesn't make you look homeless." I realise I am still in my gritty, colour smudged apron and my sweat stained work shirt, along with my hand me down pants I got from the middle child of our family. Slightly embarrassed, but more irritated, I trundle my way through to the backhouse to change.

Some ten minutes later I come out of my room wearing what my brother's no longer fit into. I slicked my dusty blonde hair back in an attempt to style it. My grey pants scale the length of my legs, evoking nothing but thoughts of a dull lifestyle. These pants are the kind you wear to a funeral or something equally as depressing. My white shirt buttoned up completely, no creases or folds anywhere. I look like someone who matters. I resemble the middle aged man that checks up our bakery every so often to ensure we haven't been snacking on the stock we should be cooking and selling. I've never actually tasted the cakes we make; well, not since I was a young boy that is.

"Someone's looking smart," Delly says as she notices me broodily standing by the doorway.

"Thanks, I'm glad to know that for once in my life I am up to someone's standards." I look over to mother who exchanges it with the dirtiest look possible. Delly obviously didn't understand, as she gives me a misunderstanding expression. "At least I know if either of us are called out at the reaping, we will go up in style." Delly tries to extinguish the negativity the annual event was brewing. It never is fun standing in a crowd of people, knowing someone you may be best friends with, or someone you have seen in the hallway at school is going to be drawn out of a fishbowl to go be sent off to their death. Delly read my expression and wrapped onto my arm with her gentle grasp. "Peeta, the chance of you being picked is slim. You've never had to put your name down for rations. I heard some people are even in about forty times!" She tries to make me feel better about my odds. Odds are odds, whether they be in your favour or not. There is always that odd that is not in your favour. And that odd is the odd that scares me most of all. "Come on you lot, the crowds are stirring. We best be on our way," my father the baker says with a bleak sound to his voice.

The town square is full, like every year at reaping. It is nice to see the square humming with human interactions, but not under such grim consequences. Guards from the Capitol have filled our usually unguarded streets; our local guards were a little less formal and a little more drunken. I heard through my father's friend that he slept around with a few of the local girls… What a sleaze. "We have to go get checked in first." It is little Cartwirght's first year here, I have put it to myself to make him as comfortable as possible. He is quivering in his loathers, and that is just because he has to get his blood taken! I couldn't imagine if he was drawn out from the thousands of slips that found comfort in that tiny fishbowl. Would I volunteer for him?

"-Sir! I need to check you in." I look at the table where the heavily armoured woman looks impatiently at me through her tinted helmet. "Sorry-" I step up to him with Cartwright, my hand over his shoulder. "It's just a prick, so they know who you are." I let him know, hoping it will rest his troubled mind for a short while. The needle is in and out within seconds. I flinch a tiny bit, sucking the small residue sitting on my finger.

"Nothing at all," I grin reassuringly at him.

He steps forward without a word and puts out his hand to receive the needle, the prick that will begin the torment for the next six years of his life. "Easy as eating cake," he mumbles, which is ironic seeing the last time we sold his family a cake was a little less than four years ago. I remember it because it was the orange cake that I iced just for the Cartwright's. Not just any orange; but a sunset orange. My favourite kind of orange. It was a token of respect from our family to theirs for the loss of their brother, not to the Hunger Games, but the treachery of District 12. My dad had this saying he would mutter. 'The Hunger Games may come only once a year for the Capitol, but for us it comes every day of the year.'

"Let's go little man," I say directing him to the age coordinated crowds ahead of us. I take him to the square and leave him as he waddles to the front of the crowd. I merge with the already large count of males, all familiar faces from the square, or from school. My palms are sweaty, I poke above the crowd trying to get a look at Delly before Effie comes through the town hall doors in a ridiculously unusual, yet flamboyant dress like every other year. I see her, she is there next to Sanja Patelle. It's hard to see the other girls face, but the dress is a bright blue, it reminded me of the birds that seasonally visit our bakery window, free and elegant with endless possibilities for adventure and travel. My attention is quickly stolen by two closely followed taps on the microphone.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome. Happy Hunger Games, and, may the odds be ever in your favour." Effie Trinket has made it to the microphone, her overdone make up and high standing wig make her standout from the drunken man and the tastelessly dressed officials. Her vibrancy was everything but contagious; nobody smiled, or rejoiced at her presence. This questionably charismatic character brings with her only death, and as nice as I'm sure she is, we don't need any more of that around here.

"Now, before we begin, we have a very special film." Effie's voice rose, her congealed face cracked with a smile. "Brought to you all the way from the capitol."

She stopped talking and averted every ones attention to the giant screen that's set up every year for the Hunger Games, so that no one has an excuse not to watch as two strangers, family members or neighbours are slaughtered by other equally victimised children throughout Panem. It showed some clips of some previous Hunger Games. The one that caught my attention was the 56th Hunger Games. The autumn maple trees, a picturesque setting. The final two battle it out in the thick of the maple forest, one with a blade and the other with nothing, followed by a montage of other games with a built voice talking over the top. I struggled to see over the top of the boys in front of me, but it doesn't matter to me. I have already seen the video countless years before.

"I just love that." Effie extracts the attention of the crowds from the screen with her booms through the microphone. "Now, the time has come to select one courageous, young man and woman to represent District 12 in the 74th annual Hunger Games." Effie pauses for a moment. "As usual; ladies first."

She eagerly waddles to the glass bowl on her right and dips her hand in, fishing for one of the many white notes. The crows is silent, she is the only person in a collection of thousands of people awaiting the name of the contestant with eagerness. She delicately retrieves her catch and returns to the microphone to present her winnings. She clears her throat and looked out to the crowd longing to share the name of the Capitol's newest victim.

"Primrose Everdeen."

My eyes widen in realisation, she is not just anyone. I throw my head to face the right side of the crowd and see a girl who resembled a flower. Small, delicate. Her name is well chosen. The children around her spread out, allowing her passage to what will be the end of her. She slowly steps down the aisle escorted by more guards than are needed for such a small person. Her body moves stiffly, speaking the shock her face and mouth couldn't. It's painful to watch such a young girl walk down to the stage, I almost can't bare it. She's walking deaths row.

"Prim!" Everyone turns to find out where the yelp came from. It's her, the girl in the blue dress! "Prim, no!" Her next scream is barely audible as she bashes and tosses through the girls surrounding her; the next cry is as clear as her grey eyes. "I volunteer as tribute!"

Her voice echoes through the square, not a single ear could have missed it. Every mouth has been devoided of words, and now all that can be heard are the shrieky cries of Prim and Mrs. Everdeen. She stiffly approaches the stage in place of Primrose, who is carried away on the shoulder of a boy a year or two above me. I look back for a small portion of time to see the panic and relief taking turns on Katniss' mothers face. How horrible it must feel to fear for the life of both of your daughters simultaneously. I look back up to the stage. She perches the stage in a distraught state, her faces painted in disbelief. She is the first ever volunteer tribute of District 12. The Capitol must be eating this up right now, sitting on the edge of their seats with excitement. Something that can only bring pleasure to the demented minds of Panem's power holders. My face cracked and showed the grief that ridiculed my mind. "That's a tough blow man," Gerald, one of my closest friends says from behind me. He knows how I felt about Katniss, and obviously knows how distraught I feel at the moment. If only I could volunteer to be in her place; it isn't fair that it has to be a boy and a girl! What am I talking about? The entire idea of this animalistic game isn't fair. 24 complete strangers have to kill each other just to get home to their families, none getting a say in whether they want to be there or even what they are to do afterwards if they win… I'm almost certain that this so called 'game' is just a way to keep us in check, how the Capitol asserts their power over us. Letting us know that we're nothing but animals to them.

The adrenaline and fear that are running through her must be overwhelming, almost unrealistic. Effie rambled to Katniss and the audience, but I couldn't bear to listen. I sat in awe trying to get my mind straight. I couldn't bring myself to think that she was going to be in a life and death situation for what could be a month, maybe even longer. Likely to die at the hands of another pitied contestant in the Capitol's glamoured game of slaughtering. I feel my facial expression as it drones a clear emotion of devastation. I feel the colour being eradicated from my cheeks. I was snapped out of my daze once again by Effie.

"And now for the boys."

She wastes not a single second picking to the bottom of the bowl, probably hoping this brings on another exciting act of sibling love, or an act of bravery by a best friend. In no time the fate of an unfortunate male was sealed. She grasped the paper slip and smiled as the card was unfolded. The microphone standing in front of her, she leans in to bear the name. My teeth clenched, I felt the impatience of the boys around me knowing they were all dreading this as much as me. The ones with their names down for meager rations countless times anxiously awaiting their name, or their brothers name. Her rasp lips open.

"Peeta Mellark."


End file.
